more adventures in cars: driver's ed.

another essay in what might become a series.

***

Driver’s ed came late for me. I went through the summer between my sophomore and junior years. I’d started school a year early, and discovered years down the road that this was one of the pitfalls, sitting in the back of a room filled with students a year behind me. Ah well. At least I’d be getting to drive soon enough. Besides, my mom had been letting me “drive” on and off for short, controlled distances since I was probably twelve or thirteen. It wasn’t as if I was a greenhorn with this whole driving thing.
The only other person in my class who was also in my grade was Amber, a girl who was early in school like I was, although she was slightly older than me. She’d never been behind the wheel before, but we signed up for the same driving group because we at least knew one another. The driving part, the only part I cared about, seemed miles away; first there were all these videos and lectures given by our ancient teacher. He also taught freshman English and coached men’s basketball. My freshman year he had taken the team to the state championships, only to lose to a powerful, all-black team from Detroit. Our little white, country-boy class C school had still done mighty well for itself, though, and Mr. Leonard was thought of as a local legend. Especially since the last time the boys had gone to state, in ’79, he had been there as head coach, too. English, which had always been fun for me, as opposed to say, Algebra, was decidedly not under his tutelage, however. Once when we were reading aloud from Romeo & Juliet, a quick glance over to his desk revealed his great shaggy head thrown back, mouth open, soft snores providing cadence for the lines read by ambivalent 14-year-olds.
Finally we got through to what mattered, and Mr. Leonard, Amber and I and a couple of soon-to-be-sophomores clambered into a late-model Ford Escort together. We drove around locally for weeks, taking Red Arrow up through Stevensville and eventually St. Joseph, navigating the tricky one-way brick paved streets and parallel parking. How many times Amber hit the curb, I can’t remember. I do know I always cringed when it was her time in the saddle, and I would look for anything green out the window I could find. Since childhood, it had been my soothing color, and if I was carsick, just seeing it calmed my stomach. Kind of like Dramamine, only visual. I don’t know, I don’t understand it, either.
“No, no, left, left, left, left.” Mr. Leonard’s voice would say, as we popped up on the sidewalk for the 37th time. “You have to straighten out before you reverse again, it’s important to keep track of the car in front of you when you’re parking.” Then he would sigh.
“Ok, let’s try it again.”
From the backseat, my eyes would roll and send a silent prayer of thanks to heaven that even in town, Michigan was heavily wooded.
I have to say, I was the best driver of the four of us. Not just because I’d practiced a lot, but because I was just naturally good. I became the wheel, the accelerator, the car. That is, until Mr. Leonard would mash down on the brakes in the passenger seat.
“We’ll keep it under sixty out here,” he would say, nodding serenely. I would bunch my brows. We were on the interstate! The speed limit was seventy, because you were supposed to drive seventy; and that was just a suggestion. Eighty seemed like an even better number. But here I was, stuck with log-sawer, curb-jumper, having my style and my speed cramped. I sighed with my best air of martyrdom. Once I got rid of these people, I could steer with my thumb and do eighty-five. They would never know.
I thought back to last winter, when my mom would let me drive around the church parking lot, spinning donut after donut in the silver Plymouth that would one day be mine. That was when I first learned how to brake; also, how to keep control of your vehicle. Or lose it, if that’s what you wanted. My friends and I used to nearly pass out cold nights, when we would be out in one of their old jalopies, having a fine time in the high school parking lot. Our faces would press to the fogged glass with centrifugal force, the air inside thick and close; the product of too many teenagers, coats, and not enough air. You just had to be careful of the light posts, and the lone rogue stop sign. Nate forgot about the latter once, and then we proceeded to remind him pretty much every day of high school.
As always, the time behind the wheel would be over far too quickly. Mr. Leonard would remind me about the ten and two position, and the importance of indicating when I would change lanes. My dad never did, so I didn’t figure it was important. But I just had to put up with this for a few more weeks, and then I would have my golden ticket- a DRIVER’S PERMIT. Then I would be invincible. Well, sort of. Invincible to the point of being able to drive with anyone over 21 in the passenger’s seat. Which meant my parents. Ok, so I was invincible to the point of driving with my parents. But this was jackpot, goldmine, King Tut’s tomb. I felt like such a greenhorn; nearly all of my friends in my grade had been driving a year already, and a couple of oldies had even been driving at the end of our freshman year. The tables were about to turn.
Finally the last day of driving was here. My tummy felt warm and I couldn’t stop smiling. Freedom awaited; I only had to make it through one more session. Mr. Leonard showed us the permits at the start of the lesson, I suppose to provide that one last sticked carrot for inspiration. As usual, we slung our backpacks in the trunk of the car, along with jackets and anything else we had. I’m sure Amber probably had a purse. I didn’t. Purses were retarded. It was now mid-September, and a windy day to boot; I remember shivering between peeling off my jacket and throwing it in the trunk and clambering into the driver’s seat.
Things progressed swimmingly. Driving went great for all four of us; even Amber’s skills had to be grudgingly admired. As a sort of token parting gift, Mr. Leonard allowed us to turn on the radio, but softly and in the background. It didn’t matter how loud it was; he was approving the Verve as a soundtrack for our learning process, so I wasn’t going to begrudge the old codger. We were all happy, and even chatted about inconsequential things: the weather, the changing of the leaves, the chances that the football team could make playoffs this fall.
All too soon we were finished, back in the parking lot at school, the engine on the Escort idling in the fall chill. I almost felt nostalgic. I reached over and gave the dashboard a loving tap. This machine would always have the distinction of being my first, and for that it was both lucky and loved. Mr. Leonard got out of the car and went to the trunk with me to retrieve my belongings and sign my PERMIT. I reached in and got my jacket, shrugging it on as he told me what a good job I’d done. I smiled in response, knowing he was just telling the truth. Then I reached for my backpack and the world ended.
This was a new backpack, one my mother had just gotten me for the start of the school year. It was olive green, my favorite color, and from the Gap, my favorite store. It looked vaguely tactical, and had some nice clips on the back of it, like maybe you weren’t quite sure if I was going to school or going to climb the Adirondacks, but you were sure I was going somewhere. Well, this pack had a little pouch towards the bottom of it, to hold essential, quick grab items like pencils, wallet, candy, rubber bands, lint, and in my case, a maxi pad. The worst part of this scenario is that my pouch was slightly open, and currently empty of all contents except for the maxi pad, which flew out and began fluttering away across the parking lot in the September wind.
I froze in place. My bag was still half-slung to my shoulder, my mouth hanging open. It was a cruel, cruel joke. Mr. Leonard followed the motion of the pad with his eyes, and before either of us realized what he was doing, he stretched out a long, dexterous leg and pinned the edge of the plastic, mauve colored pad wrapper to the ground. He looked at me beseechingly, as we both realized his TOE was on my PAD. I would have been just fine if the earth had opened up, or perhaps if the four horsemen of the Apocalypse would make an appearance. The pale horseman of Death would be just fine with me, if we could get specific. But no. There was no trumpet, no rumble of the cracking of pavement. Seconds ticked by. The pad flapped in the breeze, hitting the side of his shoe.
Swiftly and with agonizing slowness I reached down and picked up the pad, stuffing it back in the traitorous pouch and zipping it shut. I think I may have mumbled “Thank you,” but there is an excellent chance I didn’t. I am certain I didn’t meet his eyes. He handed me the permit and I can’t even remember if he said words to me. There was an excellent chance he didn’t. I slunk away, like a fish slipping back into water, quickly walking to where my mother was sitting in our family minivan, the engine idling in the cold. I didn’t feel like driving home. I could only pray she hadn’t seen the entire exchange. There was an excellent chance she did.